Page 7 of Shattered Promise

Lately, I’ve been spending more time here. Weddings, weekends, long stretches where Seattle starts to feel less like home. At first, it made sense—Graham’s wedding, all the family stuff. But now? I’m not sure if I keep coming back because it’s familiar, or because I don’t know where else I’m supposed to be.

And somehow, I wasn’t expecting that.

I glance around at the large chalkboard menu behind the counter, at the long corkboard runner stretched across the far wall. It's layered with old flyers, local events, missing pet notices, faded bake sale announcements.

I’m halfway toward the counter, reaching for my wallet, when I walk right into someone.

“Oh gosh—sorry—” I start, already stepping back.

But then a familiar scent cuts through the espresso—ocean salt and cedar, sharp and clean. My body reacts before my brain catches up, something primal and unreasonably attuned.

Mason Porter.

His name hits my ribcage like a fist.

Surprise glues my tongue to the roof of my mouth as the two of us justfreeze.

For a second, it’s like the air folds inward. Like we’re both suspended in the same moment, waiting for the world to un-pause.

It’s silly, my reaction. We’ve been casually texting for months. I’ve seen him at my parents’ dinner table more than once this year. And yet, this feels different.

Not distant or formal. Just . . . unscripted. And very, very close.

I should’ve expected him.He’sthe local, and I’m the visitor. Kind of. And yet I’m wholly unprepared to come face to chest with the man who wears that faded blue flannel like it was made just for him. Soft cotton. Broad shoulders. Jeans that cling to his thighs like a second skin.

His beard’s a little longer. But his eyes—they are exactly the same. Stormy blue with silver flecks bleeding outward, like lightning in slow motion. And when he looks at me, really looks, it feels like a hand trailing from my throat to my hips.Down.My breath catches for just a second too long.

“Trouble.” The nickname is low and rough, his voice skimming along my skin like a secret.

A reflexive smirk curves the corner of my mouth. “I haven’t heard that one in a while.” Not since I was a teenager, sneaking through the woods just to see what my brother’s best friend was up to.

He lifts one shoulder, gaze skimming my face like he’s reading an old map. A soft smile tugs at his mouth, half-familiar, half-strange. “Still fits, don’t you think?”

My hair slips over my shoulder as I tilt my head. “Nah. I’m on the straight and narrow now.”

“Is that right, hm?” His hand lifts slowly, his fingers brushing through the ends of my hair for a reckless heartbeat. “Blondes have more fun, isn’t that how it goes?”

My lips twist as his hand drops back to his side. “Something like that.”

His gaze lingers on mine for a breath longer than expected. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

I blink. Once. Twice.

“Okay,” I say slowly, dragging the word out like it might shape-shift into a question. This is new. Mason Porter offering to buy me coffee like we’re two regular people.

Still, I dip my chin in a nod. “Sure.”

The barista calls out, “I can help whoever’s next.”

Mason turns, stepping forward with a quiet ease that still somehow takes up more space than it should. He gestures toward the counter, his palm lifting slightly behind my lower back—a touch that doesn’t quite land, but radiates heat anyway. My skin prickles like he pressed a handprint there.

What the hell is happening right now?

I step up to the register, still half-convinced I fell asleep on the flight back last night and this is all part of some absurd dream. Like I’ve been dropped into an alternate timeline where Mason is—what? Flirty? Attentive? Soft?

Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at him again, searching for any sign that he’s been body-snatched. Face-swapped. Replaced with a glitch in the matrix.

But no. He looks exactly the same. Too much the same. Worn blue flannel layered over a dark gray tee. Jeans that clingindecently to his thighs. Hair a little longer than last time I saw him, curled slightly at the ends like he pushed his hands through it earlier and didn’t bother to fix it. His beard frames that unfair mouth of his, and the corners of his eyes crinkle like he’s trying not to smile.